Page 6 of Finding Silence
“I will make you regret that,” he threatens.
Not the first time I’ve heard those words, and they don’t impress me.
“Try me,” I dare him.
Then I end the call and block his number.
I feel marginally better.
Brant
* * *
“You forgot?”
After the encounter with that infuriating woman, the first thing I did when I got home was call my daughter. Unfortunately, I had to leave a message since she didn’t answer, and waiting for her to call me back did not improve my mood, or the pain in my damn chest.
“Dad, take it down a notch,” my daughter admonishes me.
She always calls me Daddy, unless she’s telling me off for something, then it turns into Dad.
“In the past week alone I’ve been dealing with three separate burglaries, a gas station hold-up, a couple of domestic disputes—one of which turned out to be domestic battery and ended up with one of the parties in the hospital—that fire at the Pig and Whistle, which looks like it’s arson, and to top it all off when I got off the phone with you earlier, I was called to the site of a hit-and-run, which left a senior citizen fighting for his life. I’ve had a few things on my plate, and I’m sorry, but telling you I finally sold the house did not make it on my list of priorities.”
Even though we have a population just shy of three thousand with an additional eight hundred or so in surrounding areas, I remember only too well how overwhelming the job can get, and I’d been doing it for thirty plus years. Savvy has barely had a chance to get her feet wet as my replacement.
I’d just been reelected two months before I had my heart attack, and it had been the mayor who appointed my daughter as interim sheriff. I have all the faith in her, but I imagine her appointment would’ve ruffled the feathers of some of the older deputies on our small force.
We had nine deputies—now eight, with Savvy in her new role—and three support staff. It’s a small operation with little room to spare in terms of the schedule, so when things get busy, it’s the sheriff who shoulders the bulk of the workload. That’s always the way it’s been.
“Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve come in and given you a hand.”
“I know you would’ve, but I was managing on my own, and calling in Daddy would not have done me any favors here in the office,” she adds in a whisper.
She’s right. She’s still fighting to prove to some she can do the job.
“So, you sold the house.” I bring us back to the reason for the call.
“Yeah, I honestly was testing to see if there’d be any nibbles. Not a thing for a few months, and I’d almost forgotten I’d listed it when I suddenly got an offer last week, looking for a quick closing date.”
I picture the old school bus and the woman who came with it, and the first thought in my mind is; I hope Savvy wasn’t taken to the cleaners on this sale.
“Tell me you got fair value for it.”
“Dad…” she admonishes again.
“Forgive me, but I saw the new owner today and she does not look like she has two pennies to rub together,” I share. “She drives an old school bus, for crying out loud. And dresses like a bag lady. Her jeans are ripped.”
She laughs at me. “Ripped jeans are in style, and I don’t think she’s hurting, Daddy. I’d listed the house above market and she paid what I asked minus a dollar.”
“Why minus a dollar?”
“I don’t know…and I wasn’t about to ask. Rowan Harlow told me Phyllis Woods did not have any issues getting the money together. She overheard her on the phone making arrangements to have movers pack up the contents of her house in Portland and ship it here, which tells me she’s definitely not a bag lady.”
My mind caught on Savvy’s mention of the woman’s surname, which is not how she introduced herself to me, and that makes me suspicious. I may no longer be acting sheriff, but that doesn’t mean my gut instincts are no longer working.
“I knew something was off with that woman; she told me her name was Dubois.”
My daughter starts laughing at me again.
